A Phoenix
by January Rose
Summary: From the ashes of Sirius' Death...


Sirius was dead. **Sirius** had been killed. Murdered. My aunt had killed my cousin, talk about your screwed up families… No matter which way I put it, the facts wouldn't stick. _Sirius Black_ could not be dead; it was not in his personality.

I remember when I was told. The battle was done, and I was in a room at Headquarters. I had been stunned and they hadn't reawakened me until they could have a healer check me over for any underlying dark magic, like good little precautionists.

Remus was there sitting in a once-grand chair by the lit fireplace, but everyone else was off cleaning up the mess Harry had blunderingly created. Dumbledore had insisted, however, that Remus stay behind to look after me. We weren't particularly close, so I suspected it to be more for the reason that he had just lost the last of his best friends, and that anger and grief frequently led to stupid actions, and death.

To ask what had happened after I had been stunned was my first course of action once I had regained consciousness, and a clear head. When he hesitated, I braced myself for the worst, and asked about the prophecy, about Harry. Sirius, to me, was an immortal. His safety never even crossed my mind. Once assuring me in stuttered bits and broken sentences that all who I had asked after were safe, the story came out. If I had not been lying down, I would have collapsed.

Oh god, I think I said, said or thought I will never be sure. Oh god, no. I could not believe it. He came to sit on the side of my bed and did his best to comfort me, though it was a bit awkward. He put his arm around my shaking shoulders, and whispered lies of happy endings in my ear. And then, somehow, his lips were on mine, or maybe mine were on his and it was just a tangle of limbs and lips and half discarded clothing all over the tiny room.

I think, perhaps, that it was just our version of coping, or maybe it was much more, but in that moment it was just about forgetting. It was our way of just not having to think about him being gone, even if it was just for the tiniest of inconsequential moments. The idea was _dealing._ It was the simplest form of comfort between two almost friends, a total When Harry met Sally moment.

The fact was that Sirius was dead, and now we were all left to deal with a mess of emotions, a war and the simple fact that he was the first man down. Oh, he wasn't the first victim, or the first death or even the first friend, I don't think, but he was the declaration of war in my view. Sirius Black's death might as well have been a piece of parchment with the words "Welcome to War" scrawled across it in bloody ink, the letters spiky and small. It was quite befitting, if you thought of who he was, who his family was, that the body that began the war in its title be his, this War's Ferdinand.

He was a child of the dark side, to be melodramatic, thrown into the light. Our family would be so proud… They were dead now, but it was going to be known before the war was done that a Black won the war for the light. Harry would make sure that when Voldemort fell to his knees, the name of his godfather would be carved into that _things_ heart.

The night of Sirius' death was the first that Remus and I ended up in bed together. Fell into bed was more like it. There was nothing like love in the beginning. We just took all we felt out on each others bodies and never was I more burnt or more satisfied.

Slowly, our sorrows waned and yet our sack sessions grew no less frequent, though perhaps less animalistic. Where there was only friendship before, lust now grew and yet I always sensed an almost reluctance on his part those later times, even when our actions were by this initiation. He also refused to call me Tonks. I was Nymphadora to him, in private his little Nymph. My first name became almost a pet name, and I stopped correcting him, eventually. I grew fond, even.

It was nearing September when he began to pull away. I was beginning to slip and fall into love with him, though we were by no means a couple of any sort. At first, I was confused, but I blamed my overactive imagination, so I paid it no heed. Soon though, he was actively avoiding me. Finally, I simply confronted him.

I asked him what his problem was. I asked him if it was me. He looked seriously astonished that I could think such a thing. He was always so proper, until we were in compromising situations. He said that the problem was him, what he was. I didn't understand until he spelt it out for me. W-E-R-E-W-O-L-F. I laughed and said it was no problem at all. He said not yet in that furlough way, and I got annoyed.

I asked him why now. I demanded to know why after almost two months he suddenly decided that he was too dangerous for me. He didn't answer right away, but simply looked me in the eye, and our gazes locked together, and I knew. It wasn't scientific, but it was in my gut and I would bet all the gold in Gringotts that I was right. He loved me. Remus Lupin loved me. All at once, I stopped falling, and I loved him too, and I think I gasped, my mouth falling slightly open. I reached out to touch his cheek, as if I hadn't memorized every inch of his well-worn face. He pulled away, and began to take his leave of the room.

When I said his name, though, he turned back to face me. I repeated that I didn't care. I insisted that I loved him too, I begged him not to do this. He laughed; the sound forced, and called me naïve. He said there were a thousand reasons I was better off without him. He said he was nearly old enough to be my father, and because of what he was, he would never be able to keep a steady job, or a steady wage. He would never be able to give me all I deserved. Never had I cared less about something, and I told him that Aurors made plenty, and I could care less about the rest. He told me it would matter eventually, and his being a werewolf would never change. I told him it might as well be a bad cold, and that was how I viewed it. He called me naïve once more and I grew angry.

I asked who the hell was he to tell me how I felt or how I would feel and that I loved him and he loved me and that's all I wanted. He did, didn't he? Suddenly I wasn't so sure. I looked at him imploringly, all my conviction gone. He told me he had never loved anyone else so much, so fast. I told him me too, and I moved to kiss him. He let me, but only for a moment, and then broke away, and took a step back, shaking his head.

We can't have everything we want, he told me, no matter how much we may want it. Then he left, in movie-magic perfection. Only in movies, I doubt it hurt this much.

I tried to be angry. I tried to curse his existence. I was determined to move on. I went through four of the five stages of grief. It didn't work, none of it. A week or so later, Molly found me sobbing, and it took very little coaxing for me to spill my guts to her, all over her kitchen table. She laughed and told me he was being ridiculous, and commented on how curious it was how death and war and destruction brought people together. She said it was the same for her and Arthur, and nothing but war could have brought them together, but she never had been so thankful in her life. Harry arrived then.

I tried to talk to Remus out of it a million times, I used every word I knew to attempt to convince him that not one syllable of the whole affair mattered to me, and if he'd only forget his demented belief that he wasn't good enough for me, we could be perfectly perfect together. I almost wore him down, I-don't-know how many times, but each time he would say something or I would and it was like the serpent in Snakes and Ladders. That was, in fact, a perfect metaphor for us; stuck in that game, never quite making it to a hundred.

It went on like this for some time, ten months worth of some time. I was becoming depressed, and even Harry and his friends looked up from saving the world long enough to notice. I seemed lost my Metamorphmangus powers, and my hair and face got stuck in their normal way, sadness twisting my features.

It took the largest catalyst of all to move us from this standstill: Bill Weasley was mauled by Greyback, and Dumbledore was murdered. Molly sobbed on and on, implying that now Fleur would not want to marry her damaged son, and the blond witch got upset. She said that she was beautiful enough for the both of them, and many things besides.

You see, I couldn't help but burst out when she was done. She doesn't care. Remus tried to tell me that it was different, but I would have none of it. I don't care either I insisted with everything I had. I don't care. Remus began repeating everything he had been saying since September, and Molly interrupted him to say she agreed with me and that he was taking a ridiculous line. Remus maintained that I deserved someone young and whole, and Molly countered, with a pointed wave at her fallen son, that the young and whole don't necessarily stay that way.

I could feel his resolve crumbling as surely as I could feel my own heartbeat, as one by one everyone said their bit. He finally reminded us that Dumbledore was dead, and our backwards romance shouldn't be discussed just then. Before I could say anymore, Hagrid banged his way into the room, tearfully searching for confirmation about the Dumbledore rumour, and the subject was dropped, for then.

I cornered him, soon after, though, as quick as I could manage it. I didn't want to give him time to rebuild his defences. I told him I loved him. I asked him if he still loved me. He told me I was a fool to think otherwise. I asked him why it had to be this way, and I begged him to reconsider. He said he didn't want to loose me, like everyone else. I told him I wasn't going anywhere.

He kissed me then, and I knew it was over. I knew this was the beginning. I knew one or both of us could die at anytime, and I knew I didn't care. I was in love with Remus Lupin, and I was his.

From the ashes of Sirius' death, our unconventional love had arisen, like a phoenix in this time of darkness. This was Terabithia, or something like it.


End file.
